


Manhattan Murder Mystery

by fromaLongLineofTVDetectives



Series: The American Episodes [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Historical References, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-06 06:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10327499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromaLongLineofTVDetectives/pseuds/fromaLongLineofTVDetectives
Summary: Phryne and Jack reunite in New York in March of 1930. Phryne encounters a murder in the alley of a Broadway theater, tangles with corrupt cops, and befriends a young, and yet undiscovered actress by the name of Kate Hepburn. None of this was what Jack had in mind for their reunion.





	1. Prologue: Best Laid Plans

**Prologue: Best Laid Plans**

**September, 1929**

Jack watched the little plane rumble down the airstrip and soar into the bright spring sky, magnificent on take-off as it seemed to overtake gravity. 

He knew, certainly, that the laws of gravity had not been suspended in that moment. If he had thought about it further -- examined aeronautical principals of lift and drag -- could understand clearly that any plane’s ascent was feat of applied science and patient engineering. Yet this morning, of all mornings, the take-off was a visual poetry. Phryne loved him. Her trip to London a minor detour in their journey together which he could finally see whole. 

Jack was confident in Phryne’s route, however hastily it was assembled. He collected her flight plans from the dining room at Wardlow that afternoon and transferred them to his own kitchen table. Her map showed a series of crisp hops, straight lines designed to maximize speed and push the operating limits of the Gipsy Moth: Melbourne – Alice Springs; Alice Springs – Broome; Broome – Denpasar, Bali; Bali – Singapore. 4000 miles in 4 days. From Burma she’d track the Indian Air Mail route across Eurasia. A channel crossing. London. 

No travel of this distance was without risk, of course, but the British Empire’s still considerable reach smoothed the road. Whatever frustrations Baron Henry George Fisher contributed to this endeavor, he was still a British peer, a nominal member of the House of Lords, and certainly one of the most improbably lucky bastards on the planet. 

Henry had the audacity to pull Jack aside at the church before Dot and Hugh’s wedding and ask if Jack had any intentions to declare towards his daughter. 

Phryne joined them before Jack could answer. “This should be interesting,” she quipped, staring down her father before locking eyes with Jack. 

Jack read her gaze and turned to the Baron. “I assure you Lord Fisher, the moment I have any intentions to declare, I’ll share them first with your daughter.” 

“In private,” Phryne added, then laced her arm through Jack’s to lead him towards the pew for the beginning of the service. 

“Behave, Father,” she said sternly as they glided past. “It’s a long trip in an open plane.” 

Jack and Phryne laughed about the exchange as they shared less formal declarations that evening in her bed. “You wouldn’t really push him out of the plane,” Jack teased, kissing her bare shoulder. 

“I’ll threaten, though,” she responded, wrapping her hands around Jack’s back as his kisses progressed down her torso. “I have very little leverage with that man. It’s a shame though. There are places on my itinerary I’d truly like to explore – oh, yes, there, Jack – and he rather takes the romance out of travel.” 

“Phryne,” Jack responded, “Talking about your father rather takes the romance out of tonight. We’ve only a few hours to first light. I’d like you all to myself right now.” 

“That sounds like a declaration, Inspector,” Phryne teased in return, kissing his jawline. 

Jack stopped her kisses, placing his hands gently on either side of her face. “It’s a declaration of simple confidence in our future,” he said, voice low and steady. “I want to be by your side and have you by mine, in whatever manner we determine.” 

Phryne was too overcome with emotion to respond in words. She kissed him slowly, deeply, distilling all of her love for him into her touch. 

* * *

Telegrams arrived each evening with reports of Phryne’s progress, but their contents dampened Jack’s faith in a quick reunion. Strong headwinds required a detour west to Adelaide, rather than risk an Outback landing short of Alice Springs. Aileron repairs lead to extra nights in Broome. A downpour in Bali, not uncommon for the rainy season, delayed arrival into Singapore. The weather in Singapore showed no improvement, although the Baron was heartened by the wide variety of games of chance on offer to the men of the Royal Navy taking a well-earned shore leave from their vigilant defense of the Empire. 

Nearly two weeks behind schedule, and with only a third of the air journey completed, Phryne decided it best to cut her aeronautical losses, selling the Gipsy Moth in Penang, then boarding a steamer for Southampton. The mental impression Jack conjured from that bit of telegraphic shorthand -- Phryne’s treasured plane mired in mud in a rain-drenched Malay airfield -- marked the first moment since their parting where he felt truly melancholy. 

“I’ve promised Mother,” Phryne wrote later from her stateroom. “She won’t do anything rash as long as she has my assurance that Father and I are traveling together. This is not the adventure I planned, Jack. Please know you are never far from my thoughts.” Jack nodded soberly as he read the letter at his desk at City South. What else could he do? It was only a delay, not an ending. Surely the Fisher luck would come roaring back. The steamer would arrive Southampton October 29th. 

* * *

As Phryne delivered her father to her mother’s waiting arms, the bottom fell out of the U.S. stock market. The next few months didn’t have the sharp urgency of the months that marked the beginning of the Great War, but there could be no doubt that the world had once again shifted on its axis. This crisis was slow moving, with dire warnings of a deepening world depression alternating with official pronouncements of resolve, and small signs of improvement. The American president himself, the great rationalist engineer Herbert Hoover, stated that “any lack of confidence” in the country’s future was foolish. But his words could not fully reassure, and in a consumer driven economy, lack of confidence could prove fatal. 

For Jack and Phryne’s part, words of mutual reassurance now traveled with less speed. The daily telegrams of last September had shifted to letters which took weeks to arrive. Their words were no less honest or ardent, but the asynchronous communication left much to be desired. 

Phryne threw herself into the financial crisis. Her letters described an intellectual engagement with the complex problem that was not unlike detective work. Although neither Phryne or her father had taken risky loans to buy U.S. securities on margin, so much world capital had found its way to the overheated U.S. stock market that very little remained in circulation for more sound business investments. Simply put, her money no longer made enough money. 

Many a well-suited man in the City of London refused to acknowledge clear evidence of changed circumstances. Phryne spent her waking hours that winter hunting down those rare few with any real insight to the new financial landscape, conducted interviews to narrow that pool further to those who would collaborate honestly and professionally with a woman, and then, after many weeks, finally placed her trust in one steady, trusted advisor who could both assess the financial crime scene with new eyes and act quickly in her interest as circumstances arose. 

Back in Melbourne, Jack’s working hours were consumed with upsurge in petty theft and public drunkenness as unemployment rose and newly idle men knocked about the docks and city streets looking for any work they could find. The work was tedious, dispiriting, and left little time for the kinds of investigations that made up his work with Phryne. 

In January, Mr. Butler popped into the station to bid Jack farewell. He’d accepted a new position in Sydney after preparing Wardlow to receive a new tenant. Phryne wasn’t ready to sell the property – not that a new buyer could be easily found in these circumstances – but couldn’t allow the house to sit fallow these many months. Jack nearly shed a tear when the man shook his hand and urged him to stay confident in the future. “Miss Fisher will return, Inspector,” he said with an open smile. “I’m sure of it.” 

And then, finally, unexpectedly, a telegram arrived in early February repeating Phryne’s words from the glorious day on the airfield last September. “Come after me, Jack Robinson,” it read. “Meet me in New York. We’ll make our way home together.” 

“Yes,” Jack replied, and a flurry of telegrams settled the travel details. For the first time in months, Jack allowed himself a measure of hope. 


	2. Manhattan, a murder, and a new friend

**March 17, 1930 -- Late evening on the wonderous Isle of Manhattan**

The Honourable Phryne Fisher, three days arrived in New York, strode north on 8th Avenue, effortlessly merging with the sidewalk throngs of Broadway theater-goers in this most magnificent of cities. If this was to be the American Century, as so many had said of late, Phryne was happy to throw over the restrictions of Mother (and certainly Father) England for the raucous energy of Manhattan. She’d spent the early evening downtown in Greenwich Village, thrilling to a modern dance performance by Martha Graham’s company, and was now in search of a nightclub to continue her evening. 

Walking the streets of New York was nearly as exhilarating as flying, Phryne thought. There was something novel and exciting around every corner. 

And Jack was arriving tomorrow. 

Perhaps, if she was honest with herself, that notion was more exhilarating than any diversion the New York city streets had to offer. 

With a change of the street signal Phryne stepped off the curb and crossed 52nd Street, turning east towards Broadway. An older woman in drab black dress stepped forward to hand her a printed flier. Phryne accepted it without stopping, chuckling to herself as she glanced at the page to find the word “NO” printed in gigantic text across the top with a stern reminder that prohibition was still the law of the land. Smaller text expressed a litany of sins too readily committed by the modern woman – driving, smoking, carousing and the desire for “companiate marriages”. Phryne was ready to toss it in the nearest bin when the thought struck her that Mac might find it amusing as a kind of perverse souvenir – lesbianism so unthinkable to these cultural reactionaries that they hadn’t even listed it among women’s potential sins. With a laugh, she folded the page and placed it in her coat pocket. 

The sidewalk grew more crowded as a nearby theater opened its doors. Phryne’s eyes were drawn to the lighted marquee, proclaiming opening night of the Turgenev play, “A Month in the Country”. Russian drama held little appeal for Phryne, but the name of the leading lady, Alla Nazimova, rang a bell. Phryne recalled seeing her silent film version of Oscar Wilde’s “Salome” in a London cinema years previous. The film was a curious experiment – more modern art than the kinds of popular amusements Hollywood turned out. Moreover, Phryne recalled, Wilde’s original production had been banned from London theaters for years due to its “indecent” content. If Miss Nazimova was aligned against the forces of censorship and prohibition, Phryne thought, the least she could do was a buy a ticket for later in the week. 

Two tickets, she corrected herself with a smile. Jack. 

But as Phryne stepped to the box office, shouts arose from the adjacent alley. A group of pedestrians milling about the theater entrance fell backwards as three men ran past at full speed towards 8th Avenue. Could that have been a gunshot? 

The sidewalk crowd remained thick as Phryne approached the alley slowly, hand on her own pearl-handled revolver. In the darkness of the alley, she could just make a figure slumping against the brick wall of the next building. 

Phryne’s instincts took over as she approached the man. He was bleeding profusely from the gut, an apparent gun-shot wound at the base of his rib cage. Phryne removed her scarf and pressed it firmly against the wound, easing the man to a seated position against the wall. The man groaned in pain and mumbled a few words in Russian that Phryne could barely make out. Although other milled about the main street, but no one else seemed to bear witness to the situation in the alley or come to their aid. 

After what seemed an eternity, but was likely only a minute or two, a young woman emerged from the theater’s stage door, stopped short, and met Phryne’s gaze. 

“Get help please!” Phryne called out. “A doctor. And the police. Quickly!” 

The young woman, still dressed in her costume, re-entered the theater and disappeared. 

Phryne knew her meager nursing efforts were no match for the man’s injuries. She continued to press her scarf against his wound with her right hand, and attempted to cushion his head with her left. “Alla,” he said. “Reach Alla.” Phryne feared the man had breathed his last, and moved her hand to check the pulse on his wrist to confirm. She laid the man flat on the ground and covered him with her coat. 

The young woman from the theater returned, now out of costume. Phryne couldn’t help but be struck by her resemblance to Mac in earlier days. 

“The police are on their way,” she said. “Eunice went to fetch them.” The actress paused and looked at the victim. “Is he dead?” 

“Yes,” Phryne replied. “Yet, you don’t seem shocked. Do you know this man?” 

“No,” the young woman replied without emotion. “But I do know dead.” 

Phryne looked her over carefully, not yet sure how to take that answer. “This gentleman doesn’t work in the theater?” Phryne asked. 

“I can’t say I know everyone,” the young woman replied, lifting the coat from his face for a closer look. “But I am an understudy. It is my job to observe.” 

“Had you been in the alley earlier?” Phryne asked, wanting to learn as much about this unusual young woman as she could. 

“Fifteen minutes ago,” the actress replied. “This isn’t the primary stage door. In fact, it’s normally locked. But I saw Brooks Atkinson, the Times theater critic, you know. I ah, well, I saw him exit this way just before the curtain call, holding his little note pad. So I followed him out. Thought he might jot down a word or two and I could look over his shoulder.” 

This young woman had spirit, Phryne thought and a delightfully mischievous smile. “Could you?” Phryne asked. 

“Too dark,” she replied. “He walked to 52nd Street. The alley was empty. I went back inside.” 

Phryne returned her smile. 

“I’m Kathy, by the way,” the actress offered. “And there – finally -- is Eunice with some help.” 

Phryne turned to see another young woman approaching with a uniformed police officer in tow. The officer, much too young and little unsteady on his feet, seemed far more interested in Eunice than the crime scene. 

She strode forcefully to the officer and held out her hand. 

“Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective. The victim was shot, apparently at close range, approximately twenty-five minutes ago, and expired despite my best efforts to stop the bleeding. The victim…” 

Phryne stopped abruptly as the officer refused both her hand and her information, idly poking the body with his nightstick. “That’s no way to treat a fellow human being, Constable,” Phryne declared, “Nor is the proper way to handle a crime scene. I’d like to speak to your superior officer.” 

“Constable,” he sneered, reeling around to face her. “I don’t know who you think you are lady, but here in America, I’m Officer FitzPatrick, and ain’t no one superior to anyone else here, your majesty.” 

Now Phryne could smell the alcohol on his breath. She decided to try a different tack. “Very well, Officer. If you’ll kindly tell me where to find your station tomorrow during business hours, I’ll be happy to give you and your Inspector…” 

“Detective,” Kathy interjected. 

“Detective, yes, thank you Kathy. If you’ll kindly tell your detective to expect Miss..” 

“Hepburn,” Kathy replied. 

Phryne continued without missing a beat. “Expect Miss Hepburn and I at the station tomorrow morning and we’ll give our full statements. I think you’ll find I’m an excellent asset to your police department when it comes to bringing murderers to justice. Good evening.” 

Katharine Hepburn was spellbound by Phryne’s performance. 

“Miss Fisher,” she said, following her to the front of the theater. “Care for a drink?” 

Shortly thereafter, Phryne Fisher and Katherine Hepburn shared a table at Little Russia, a nightclub on 57th Street adjacent to The Russian Tea Room. Phryne thought it the right setting to begin to puzzle through loose threads from the evening. 

“Do you think the man was saying Allah, as in the Muslim deity, or Alla, meaning our Nazimova?” Kathy asked. 

“I wish I knew,” Phryne replied honestly. 

“Do you think she’s in danger?” 

“She very well could be,” Phryne answered. “We shouldn’t rule it out.” 

“Ginger ale, please” Kathy requested of the waiter as he approached the table. 

“Domestic or imported?” he asked. 

“Imported,” she replied. 

“Imported ginger ale?” Phryne queried. 

"I think you'll like it." 

The waiter re-appeared with two sodas, ice and steel flask he quickly slipped under the table. 

“You see, Miss Fisher,” the actress explained, “There are a few things the modern woman needs to know to thrive in city.” 

“Call me Phryne,” the older woman replied. “We’ve shared a murder scene. That must certainly put us on a first name basis.” 

“Are you truly a detective in Australia?” Kathy asked. “That’s fascinating.” 

“Yes, truly,” Phryne replied. “In Melbourne, or wherever I may be needed. But at least in Melbourne, Jack and I…” Phryne paused at the need for a description to follow the mention of Jack’s name. “In Melbourne, Inspector Jack Robinson and I have developed a very close professional relationship, and, well…” 

“Yes?” 

“I don’t want to scandalize you, Kate. Do you mind if I call you Kate? I much prefer it to Kathy.” 

“Call me whatever you like,” she replied. “And you’ll find I don’t scandalize easily.” 

“Well then,” Phryne replied with a lift of her glass. “To new friends who enjoy a little rebellion. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson is my dear friend, my professional partner in crime solving, and my lover,” Phryne declared. “And I miss him terribly, particularly with that infuriating officer this evening.” 

“That’s quite a lot to expect from one man,” Kate replied. “He must be a remarkable creature. I’m not certain my husband could fill that sort of bill.” 

“I hadn’t occurred to me that you were married, Kate. Isn’t he wondering why you haven’t made it home?” 

“No, no. He’s perfectly fine home alone. Sound asleep I imagine.” 

“I see.” 

“I don’t mean to give you the wrong idea, Phryne. Luddy’s a dear, and very supportive of my career. He doesn't expect a traditional wife. I'm quite lucky.” 

“Yes, well, Jack had a traditional wife, once upon a time, and I've never found the need for the institution. But it does leave us without a word to use in polite conversation.” Phryne shrugged. “But the limitations of language aside, the three of us do have a mystery to solve together tomorrow. You’re in, aren’t you.” 

“Of course,” Kate said. “I don’t expect the New York police will treat you with the same level of respect as the Melbourne police.” 

“Oh, I’m quite sure they won’t,” Phryne responded. "Although Jack's presence may help. We should be prepared that we'll have to solve this one on our own however. Still game?” 

“Will I have to miss a performance?” 

“No, we need you on the inside of the theater. Your observation skills, remember?” 

“Fascinating,” Kate replied. “I’m in.” 

“To new adventures,” Phryne said, lifting her glass again, and as an image of dear Jack sleeping soundly in his steamer cabin, added to herself “and to joyful reunions celebrating everything we do best together.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This case fic allows me to combine several obsessions -- Miss Fisher, New York in the Jazz Age, and old Hollywood. If any history buffs in the audience are interested in my research and would like to learn more about my sources, give a shout in the comments and I'll be happy to oblige.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. The Next Morning

**March 18, 1930**

The morning was grey mist as the Australian liner inched through lower New York harbor. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, paced the deck brown fedora in hand, crushing, loosening, and re-crushing the brim as he searched the monotone horizon for some sign of land. 

“Robinson! Breakfast!” boomed a far cheerier voice. 

Jack turned towards the hearty man who called for him. Bradley - Bradford - Branwell - something… Jack made a half-hearted attempt at remembering. 

“Can’t,” Jack replied, gesturing to his stomach. “But please don’t refrain on my account.” 

He was a wool salesman -- Jack recalled that much. Bradford made the three-week crossing from Sydney to New York twice a year and back again, showing his wares to designers in the city and textile manufacturers across New England. Sounded dreadful. 

“Nonsense,” Bradford replied. “Plenty of time. I’ll jaw with you a minute.” 

Jack attempted a wan smile. 

“Cheer up Robinson. The worst part is over. You’ll be reunited with your girl by sundown.” 

Bradford wouldn’t dare call Phryne a girl if he had ever met her, Jack thought, but he didn’t care enough about the man to attempt a correction. 

“Sundown?” Jack asked the more experienced traveler. “I thought we were due to dock by ten.” 

“Yes, well, that’s what the schedule says, doesn’t it? But it’s slow going now through in this fog. Freighter traffic once we hit the Brooklyn piers, more ferries and barges and every other type of vessel you can imagine – and some you can’t – by the time we hit the upper harbor and the rivers. And worse on land.”

A speedy motor launch zipped past, unconcerned with the low visibility. 

“Bootleggers!” Branford called out. “Run fast boys!” 

Jack could only shake his head. 

“Sorry, Robinson. Forgot you were a copper. You can root for the Prohibition forces if it makes you feel better, but they’re outgunned this morning. It’s a hell of city, Robinson. Chews men up and spits ‘em back out. Nothing like it.” Bradford chuckled, apparently approving of this kind of muscular arrangement of mens’ affairs. 

Now Jack added some vaguely defined concern for Phryne’s safety in this hell of a city to the jumble of concerns in the pit of his stomach. Had she brought her gun into the country? Was that allowed? 

“And smuggling,” Bradford said, continuing his soliloquy. 

Jack remained silent, keeping his features even, and willing the man to move along so he could be alone with his thoughts. 

“U.S. Customs is all worked up about drug smuggling, my mate says. May slow us down longer at the pier. Some French liner was caught with German heroin last week, or maybe it was a German liner with French heroin. Can’t recall.” Bradford laughed again. Apparently nothing bothered this man except the price of wool on the futures exchange. 

“Nothing for you to worry about Robinson,” Bradford continued, again misinterpreting Jack’s silence. “Upright copper like you not carrying any contraband, right?” Bradford laughed heartily, as if this was the most humorous thing he’d ever heard, slapped Jack on the back for good measure, and finally moved along. 

Jack stared again into the grey distance, his hand in his right pocket idly fingering another kind of taboo object – a woman’s ring that some people, perhaps most people, certainly a woman as smart and fashionable as Phryne, in all likelihood, would consider an engagement ring. 

He’d purchased it on a whim, from a desperate jobless man in a California sea port reduced to selling family heirlooms for quick cash. Jack took pity. The man took one pound sterling and set off to find a money changer. Jack jostled the ring in his pocket. It didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t have to leave his pocket, ever, maybe. 

Jack recalled every nuance of his last exchange with Phryne on the topic of marriage. She’d told him that the young Collingwood urchin Paddy had proposed at the end of their successful case. 

“It would take a brave man to propose marriage to you,” Jack had said. 

“Or a very foolish one,” she had replied. 

But her tone suggested something different - that the foolishness in question was her failing and not his, and thus might not be a permanent condition. At least that was Jack’s reading at the time, placed together with a particularly sensuous moment in her parlor earlier in the case. Then again, back home, those many months ago, Jack had been in the midst of a slow and careful courting that endeavored to put their romantic relationship on a confident, stable footing. And it had worked, too. Back home, back then. 

New York, today, was another matter, looming in the grey distance. 

And Phryne somewhere on the mainland, beyond the fog. Jack was desperate to see her. 

* * *

Phryne woke up in a very comfortable bed in the Hotel Plaza, one of New York’s finest. Coffee, toast and the morning paper were delivered to the room with an easy efficiency. She lit a gasper, a habit she’d given up in Melbourne but picked up once again after the first week in London under the same roof as her mother. She’d stop for Jack, if he minded. Some things were negotiable. 

His ship was due at eleven, though it would take longer for passengers to disembark and clear customs. Phryne had arranged to meet Kate at nine outside the theater to search the alley for clues that she was certain New York’s finest had left behind. Afterwards, they’d visit the police station and give their statements, as promised. If she could reach the pier by noon, everything would line up perfectly. 

Phryne had awoken once during the night and found the dead Russian’s final words playing over in her head. The sounds at least – she still didn’t know their meaning – her Russian was decent but by no means fluent. An unusual dialect perhaps? “Alla” was the only thing he’d said clearly, and it’s meaning was ambiguous at best. Perhaps she and Kate should interview Nazimova and try to make some sense of things. Did Nazimova know the Russian man? Had anyone threatened her? And the other actors and stage hands. A thorough investigation would require dozens of interviews, and if Nazimova was in danger, the interviews really should be done this afternoon. 

Phryne picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. 

“Good morning,” she said crisply. “Phryne Fisher in Room 527. I’d like to arrange a car service.” 

Moments later she’d hired a Packard and uniformed chauffeur through the Grand Central Packard Renting Corporation. A man would meet Jack at the pier, whenever he arrived, and whisk him back to the room to rest and refresh while Phryne and Kate worked the case. She hadn’t promised, in so many words, to meet to him at the pier. 

Phryne removed a piece of stationary and envelope from the desk and wrote a flowing hand, “My Darling Jack, Finally you’re here. I’m waiting for you at the Plaza. Yours, Phryne. P.S. We have a case!” 

Phryne dressed quickly for the day and dropped the envelope with the front desk, to be delivered to the hired chauffeur. She exited the grand lobby, turned south on Fifth Avenue and strode towards 52nd Street with a wide smile. New York is surely the greatest city in the world, Phryne thought. Today would bring adventure. 

* * *

“The police haven’t sealed off the alley,” Phryne narrated to Kate, “which either means they’ve completed their investigation before us, or ignored it altogether.” 

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Kate asked, doing her best to mimic Phryne’s motions as they searched. 

“Anything unusual,” Phryne answered. The alley was littered with the usual detritus of city life – cigarette butts, bits of newspaper, broken glass. “Let’s retrace our steps from last night. I was here near the box office, then I thought I heard a gunshot, and turned into the alley. I met our victim here.” Blood remained on the pavement where the man had fallen. 

Kate stooped the examine the ground where Phryne stood, taking her detective training quite seriously. 

“I called Father this morning,” Kate said. “He’s an internist in Hartford. One of the best, of course. You’d love him. Everyone does. He says the gunshot must have caused massive internal damage for the man to die so quickly. The spleen, perhaps. You did say the shot missed the upper chest.” 

“Yes,” Phryne responded, struck again by the uniqueness of this young woman, so intelligent and self-possessed and yet close to her parents. Most women Phryne knew who had struck out on their own path had done so in the face of opposition from restrictive parents. 

“What else did the good Dr. Hepburn say?” Phryne asked. 

“That I should try to stay away from murder scenes,” Kate replied with a laugh. “A little late for that. He couldn't warn me off acting, either.” 

“Walk with me this way,” Phryne said, moving deeper into the alley in an attempt to recreate the victim’s path before he was shot. “Besides,” Phryne continued, picking up the other conversational thread. “What if your next audition is for a detective?” 

“Or a murderer!” Kate added, eyes shining brightly, not missing a beat. “Phryne, over here.” 

Phryne followed Kate’s gaze to a large envelope trapped between a wall in the trash bin, smeared with dried blood. 

“Put on your gloves, Kate,” Phryne directed as Kate reached for the item. 

“Empty,” Kate said, examining the torn brown container. “But look at this!” she exclaimed. Nazimova’s name was scrawled on the front. 

“Our victim could have delivered the inner package to Miss Nazimova and discarded the envelope afterwards,” Phryne mused. 

“Impossible,” Kate concluded. “She was on stage, through the end of the performance. There wasn’t time.” 

“How do we talk to her, Kate?” 

“She’s very reclusive. I see her every day at the theater, obviously, but we haven’t spoken. I doubt she knows my name. Once during rehearsals the stage manager sent me to her dressing room with a message, and I couldn’t reach her even then. Glesca intercepted…” 

“Glesca?” Phryne said, cutting Kate off mid-sentence. “What’s Glesca? It’s one of the words our victim muttered last night.” 

“Who is Glesca?” Kate replied. “Glesca Marshall. She’s Nazimova’s companion. Or perhaps _companion_ some say – I’m not one to gossip.” But the undertone in Kate’s voice suggested the opposite. 

“No, theater people never gossip,” Phryne said, matching Kate’s ironic tone. “But we’ll need to speak to Glesca, at bare minimum. Perhaps she received the package from out victim.” she continued, now serious. “And Nazimova may be in danger.” 

Phryne carefully folded the envelope and placed it in her handbag. 

“Now, Kate. We’re off the police station.” She patted the bag. “And thanks to your sleuthing, we have some leverage. These officers,” Phryne continued, “are going to tell us what they know and accept our cooperation, whether they like it or not.” 


	4. Later, that same day...

**March 18, 1930**

“Sergeant,” Phryne Fisher said, masking her frustration with a polite but firm tone, “When do you expect the detective will be able to speak with us about the murder?” Phryne gestured from the counter where she stood to the nearby chairs, where her new friend Kate also waited. 

“Have you returned your written statements?” the desk sergeant growled. 

The station was crowded and understaffed. Although the precinct included Broadway and many of Manhattan’s finest addresses it also extended west to Hell’s Kitchen, home of Irish tenements and notorious bootleggers. 

“Our witness accounts were signed and in your hands at half past ten,” Phryne stated, now masking less of her frustration. “What you’ve done with them since, I couldn’t say. It is now half past eleven. We must see the detective.” 

The phone rang incessantly as Phryne spoke. Sergeant O’Hallaran glared at the uniformed officer who should have been answering the blasted device. 

“18th Precinct,” he shouted into the handset, to no apparent response. “Midtown North, 18th Precinct,” he shouted louder, then slammed the lever down when the person on the other end of the line - no doubt an unfortunate citizen in search of aid, Phryne thought – seemingly withered in the face of the man’s angry greeting. 

Phryne rarely withered. “We’ll wait,” she said simply, returning to Kate at the hard-backed wooden chairs. 

“That went well,” Kate said with a smile. 

“I sent a car to meet Jack at the pier,” Phryne replied. “Still, I held out some hope that we’d be done here and I could meet up with him as well.” 

“The sergeant did say the detective would contact us later,” Kate offered. 

“You’re a good observer of character, Kate. Do you believe him?” 

“No. If they won’t deal with us here – Well, we’ll be completely out of mind once we’re out of sight, won’t we.”

“Justice rarely travels swiftly, does it?” 

“There are times it never gets out of first gear,” Kate answered. 

This young lady was truly a kindred spirit, Phryne thought. She swept her gaze around the precinct and settled on a young uniformed officer at the end the hallway. “But sometimes we can nudge justice along. What do you think of the young man there?” 

“Reminds me a bit of my brother Bob if he grew up to be a policeman.” 

“That mental association might make my plan a little uncomfortable,” Phryne replied. “You can certainly say no. But the officer, who is decidedly not your brother Bob, took some notice of you earlier. I thought a little feminine encouragement might at least get him to reveal when the detective was due back to the station.” 

Kate removed her wedding and engagement rings and handed them to Phryne before she had fully completed her statement. “Hold these,” Kate said eagerly, her stage in sight. 

Phryne smiled widely. 

“What?” Kate responded. “I take them off every night at the theater. Hand me a cigarette. I’ll ask him for a light.” 

Phryne watched with growing admiration as Kate strode down the hallway. Kate’s facial features seemed to change like quicksilver as she transformed herself into a new woman of her own imagining. She’s going to be a marvelous star someday, Phryne thought. 

Five minutes later Kate returned, taking a draw from the lit cigarette. “One-thirty,” Kate said. “All of the detectives are downtown for a briefing with federal Prohibition officers.” 

“Excellent work Kate,” Phryne replied, taking the cigarette from Kate’s hand for her own drag. “Let’s get some lunch. We’ll ambush the good detective on his return.” 

* * *

Approximately ten blocks west another detective, this one Australian, disembarked at a Hudson River pier. 

Jack Robinson cleared customs without incident, retrieved one battered brown suitcase, and emerged onto a scene ten times busier and more chaotic than the one Phryne had experienced at the 18th precinct. Every vehicle - waterborne, street or rail - belched thick black smoke. Huge loads of cargo swung through the air on neighboring freight piers, narrowly missing the heads of working men below. Teams of under-fed boys circled disembarking line passengers, looking for an easy mark. Peddlers called out in every conceivable language. 

Bradford, the wool salesman from aboard ship, said New York City had more cars than all of Europe. Bradford considered it progress. Yet to Jack, so far from home, it seemed only noise and chaos. If this New York was the next phase of modernity, Jack felt neither modern or liberal-minded. 

And Phryne was nowhere to be found. 

Jack noticed a uniformed chauffeur holding a sign hand-lettered with the name “Fisher”. In his gloom even the existence of the sign with the admittedly common name felt like a punch to the gut. Where was she? 

“Get ahold of yourself Robinson,” he muttered. “She won’t even recognize you in this mood.” Jack picked up his case and trudged forward to the nearest avenue. 

As he reached the roadway, a cabbie squealed to a stop in front of him, nearly hitting a small boy who hadn’t jumped back to the curb in time. “Where to?” the cabbie called. 

“Hotel Plaza,” Jack responded. “I was meant to be met here, but she must have, well, there must have been some unavoidable delay.” Jack hesitated at the rear door. 

“You getting’ in or not?” the cabbie asked. 

“Yes, getting in,” Jack said, and did so quickly. 

“Three dollars direct,” the cabbie added. “Five if you want the scenic tour. Ten if we’re stopping to pick up refreshments on the way.” 

“Direct, please,” Jack said wearily. “I’ve had a three-week scenic tour to reach this point.” 

“Hold on,” the cabbie replied, barreling into traffic without looking and nearly sideswiping an elderly woman who had picked the wrong moment to attempt to cross the street. In Melbourne, Jack could have threatened to pull the man’s hack license. Here, with no legal authority, he was along for the ride. 

East of the Hudson, the spires of Manhattan loomed in the distance. The as-yet unfinished Empire State Building – begun before the calamities of Black Friday – inched taller into the grey mist along its inevitable path to completion. 

The cabbie caught Jack’s gaze in his rearview. 

“Nobody’s had a chance to jump from that one yet.” 

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the 18th Precinct, Phryne Fisher emerged somewhat victoriously from the office of Detective Ronald Enright. 

“Well?” Kate asked. 

Phryne motioned her outside to the street before continuing. 

“He won’t be much of an ally. We’ll need Jack’s help to get access to the autopsy and ballistics report when they’re completed. But he wasn’t incompetent and conceded there could be some threat to Nazimova or others at your theater.” 

“Did you reveal the envelope?” Kate asked, referring to the evidence she and Phryne had found at the crime scene that morning. 

“No,” Phryne replied. “He wasn’t so cooperative that we should give up our leverage. But I did learn our victim’s name -- Ephraim Alexandrov.” 

“How so?” 

“I played to Detective Enright’s prejudice, I’m afraid. He saw little value in my experience as an investigator, but had to concede that I could provide some comfort to victim’s next of kin by sharing his final moments.” 

“They’ve located the next of kin?” 

“No, and made little effort, as best I can see. We’ll have to add that to our list as well.” 

Phryne found that they were walking in the direction of the Plaza. 

“Are you due at the theater yet, Kate?” 

“I have another hour or so. Doesn’t make much sense to head home and then double back for my call time.” 

“Let’s have a drink at the hotel then. We’ll wait for Jack and plot our next move.” 

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Phryne and Kate entered the Plaza lobby, laughing together like old friends although their acquaintance was less than twenty-four hours old. 

Jack Robinson, occupying a leather club chair in the Oak Room, looked up from ice tea in time to watch the ladies amble past. 

“Miss Fisher,” he called out from the doorway. 

“Jack!” she responded, somewhat breathlessly. She turned back immediately, Kate trailing, with every intention of wrapping him in a tight embrace, yet she stopped short at the threshold. 

“Miss Fisher?” he repeated, stunned by her hesitation at the doorway. “Is there some invisible barrier preventing you from entering this space.” 

“No, it’s quite a visible barrier, darling, if you know where to look.” 

Her mischievous smile drew a matching smile from Jack in return, though he had no earthly idea where she was going with this answer. 

“The proprietors of this fine establishment,” she continued, “will not permit me to cross this line into the Oak Room unless my name were Mr. Fisher.” 

“Aahh,” Jack said, leaning against the door frame and catching on to the game. “But you’re not Mr. Fisher, are you?” 

“I’m not indeed, and we may both thank providence for that.” She stepped towards him, as close as possible without touching, never breaking eye contact. “So you see, Jack, if you want to greet me, you’re going to have to waltz just one step closer.” 

Without another word, Jack did just that, and placed a gentle kiss on her lips for the first time in seven interminable months. 

Kate, sensing the scene had one too many actors at present, made a hasty exit. 

Phryne barely noticed. 

“Your friend is leaving,” Jack said, ignoring all propriety and leaning in for second kiss. 

“No matter,” Phryne replied, taking his hand. “We’ll see Kate tomorrow. We have a case. But all that can wait, Jack. Come upstairs.” 

Her brought her hand to his lips as they waited for the elevator. “I’ve missed you Phryne. Nothing was right without you.” 


	5. Still later, that same evening

In the dim evening light, Jack woke to the sounds of Phryne rustling through the armoire at the far end of their hotel suite. Still weary from travel – and the afternoon’s vigorous reunion – he inched himself up into sitting position and flipped on the small lamp on the bedside table. 

“Phryne, what are you doing?” 

“Getting dressed, darling. I didn’t want to wake you,” she replied, selecting a dark blue cloche from the shelf and removing her overcoat from the hanger. “But now I _can_ see my wardrobe options better.” 

“It’s still night, yes?” he asked. “Am I supposed to know where you’re off to?” 

“The case. I’m due to meet Kate at ten to see what she discovered at the theater tonight, and it’s a good half hour walk from here with the crowds.” 

“And you were prepared to leave me here without a word.” An edge had crept into Jack’s tone. 

“Nonsense, Jack. I was going to leave a note.” Phryne heard herself matching the annoyance in his voice, and stopped herself. She didn’t want to start a fight. “I’m sincerely sorry about this afternoon at the pier. I don’t know why the chauffeur couldn’t find you. I plan on taking it up with the hotel concierge.” 

“I wasn’t looking for a chauffeur. I was looking for you.” 

Phryne held his gaze, reading the mixture of passion and hurt in his eyes. She sat down next to him on the bed, ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him gently. “Go back to sleep. You could barely string two sentences together earlier, much less listen to me rattling on about the case. I won’t be gone long.” 

“No, I’m awake,” he said, grasping her hand, his voice now warmer. “And I’m not quite ready to let you out of my sight. Wait ten minutes?” 

Phryne couldn’t take her eyes from his beautiful naked form as he rousted himself from bed and crossed to the bathroom. Seven months of celibacy was not a record she intended to repeat any time soon. 

The afternoon’s lovemaking had proven that their desire for one another had not dimmed during their time apart, but something in Jack’s demeanor was clearly off. They’d barely spoken in bed, and hadn’t laughed together. She knew he was tired, and miffed about the pier mix-up, but this felt like something more. His usual quiet intensity had turned more taciturn. 

Phryne shrugged – not wanting to overthink things this soon. She was confident that their efforts to uncover the truth about the death of the unfortunate Mr. Alexandrov would return the full range of their partnership to a familiar even keel. After all, joint detective work had worked as balm before. 

* * *

“So that’s the gist of it. The police have ranged from incompetent to infuriating, and we don’t know much more than the dead man’s name.” Phryne caught Jack up on the case as they walked from the Hotel Plaza to the theater district. 

“Have the authorities asked for your help?” 

“No, quite the contrary,” Phryne replied with a wry smile. “They’ve told me to go away. But when have I ever taken no for answer.” Phryne placed a hand on Jack’s elbow and steered him towards a right turn on 57th Street from Broadway. “Third door, darling, at the red awning. Little Russia.” 

“Speakeasy?” Jack asked as they entered. 

“No, it’s a proper supper club. We were here last night. It’s fascinating. – That’s Kate’s favorite word – fascinating.” 

“But there is alcohol,” he replied, still struggling to get his bearings about the city and the situation. 

“Of course,” Phryne said. “As best I can tell, Prohibition isn’t much more than a suggestion in Manhattan. Kate says you have to watch for the cheap rot though. The more unscrupulous purveyors mix flavorings with industrial alcohol and people wind up terribly sick, or terribly dead. Black markets can be complicated.” 

“Well, I’m not planning to be here long enough to have to learn them,” Jack replied, half under his breath. Phryne had already moved several steps ahead of him into the club as she caught sight of Kate and her friends. Jack followed in her wake. 

* * *

Kate made introductions all around as Phryne and Jack joined the rollicking party. Her table was entirely made up of theater people – Eunice Stoddard, who played the ingenue role, two other young actresses who played maids and household staff, a trainee from the costume department, and at a distance, Kate’s husband, Ludlow Ogden Smith. Luddy was nearly ten year older than Kate, dressed conservatively in the suit he had no doubt worn all day at the office. He was attentive to Kate, Phryne noticed, lighting her cigarette and refilling her champagne glass from the magnum at the center of the table, but otherwise content to sit back and let the ladies’ conversation wash over him. Jack naturally gravitated to the empty chair near him. 

“Phryne,” Kate called out at the next lull in the conversation, “Eunice has the most marvelous idea.” 

“Really, do tell,” Phryne answered, eyes sparkling. 

“I told her about the great fun we had at the police station this afternoon. She says we should all go to Europe this summer when the play is done and start a ladies’ detective agency.” 

“But I already have a detective agency in Melbourne,” Phryne replied with a laugh, understanding that this kind of flight of imagination was the highest form of fun for a group of creative people. “How would I manage one in Europe.” 

“We’d need a central location on the Mediterranean,” Eunice added. “Cannes? Do we like Cannes?” 

“Cannes is lovely,” Phryne said. “Jack, champagne?” 

He shook his head no. The revelry of the thespians was not reviving his mood. 

“We’d need a plane!” Kate exclaimed. “To take cases all over the continent. Do you fly, Phryne?” 

“Yes, actually,” she replied. “Although I had to give up my Gipsy Moth in Malaysia a few months ago.” 

“Is it not a good detective plane?” Eunice asked. 

“It wasn’t a good monsoon plane, unfortunately. Though it served me well in some circumstances. I think we’d need a slightly larger aircraft for what you ladies are imagining.” Phryne’s answer set off a new round of playful conversation. 

Jack sighed and closed his eyes. Luddy noticed. “Something stronger, Jack?” he asked. 

“No, thank you,” Jack answered. “Would they do coffee here?” 

“Of course.” Luddy motioned for a waiter. “You know, my wife thinks your wife is one of the most extraordinary women she’s ever met.” 

“She’s not,” Jack started, then finished in his head, _my wife_ , before realizing how his partial answer had come across to other man. “Phryne is extraordinary,” he said simply. “And she seems equally taken with your Kate. They seem perfectly in synch.” 

* * *

While Jack and Luddy spoke, another young woman approached the table and said a quite hello to Kate. Kate then motioned to Phryne and the three women relocated to a private banquette in the corner of the dining room. 

“Phryne, this is Glesca Marshall, Nazimova’s companion,” Kate announced. 

“How do you do, Miss Marshall,” Phryne responded. “Thank you for meeting us tonight. I believe Kate filled you in on our inquiry? The man who was killed in the alleyway last night spoke Miss Nazimova’s name, and Kate and I found an envelope in the same alley addressed to Miss Nazimova.” 

“Miss Hepburn explained,” Glesca responded. “The man, the murder victim, was not familiar to me, but I do believe he was the one who gave me this package before the show yesterday.” She produced a small cardboard box, approximately the size of wristwatch, and tied up with string. 

“Have you opened the box?” Phryne asked. 

“No,” Glesca replied. “I put it aside, with the other items. You see, many people bring gifts for Nazimova, particularly on opening night – flowers, small tokens of affection, marriage proposals. I collect the items, mark the names in a log, if there are names, and do return correspondence once a week.” 

Phryne examined the box in the dim light. “I can see why you’d think this was a gift – a piece of jewelry, perhaps. Did Mr. Alexandrov seem unusual in any way? Agitated? Threatening?” 

“Not at all,” Glesca answered. “He was pleasant. He said he wished to speak with Nazimova, and would return, but there was nothing remarkable about him in the least.” 

“Have you asked Miss Nazimova if she knew the victim?” Phryne continued. 

“No. The performance takes so much out of her. She returned straight home this evening with a terrible headache. In fact, I really should…” Glesca slid to the edge of the banquette seat and stood up to leave. 

“Of course. Thank you.” Phryne stood to shake her hand. “Miss Marshall, one more thing.” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you spoken to the police?” 

“No. Would you like me to?” 

“Don’t avoid them, if they happen to come round,” Phryne said. “But there’s no need to seek them out either. Kate will let you know if we learn more.” 

As Kate walked Glesca to the door, Phryne attempted to catch Jack’s eye, hoping to bring him in to the conversation when she examined the new evidence. But before she could get his attention, she noticed Kate in a heated conversation with a uniformed police officer near the hostess stand. Taking a few steps closer, she could see that it was Officer FitzPatrick, the beat cop from the previous night. 

Phryne tapped Jack on the shoulder as she passed the large table, and motioned for him to follow her towards the front of the restaurant. 

They reached the officer in full red-faced drunken tirade, screaming at Kate that the statement she turned in to the station that morning had embarrassed him in front of his superior officers. Kate didn’t respond verbally, but also didn’t back down, standing tall and keeping her gaze level upon him, even as a crowd gathered. Phryne wondered what character she was summoning to strengthen her resolve. 

Phryne stepped between them, nudging Kate out of the way. “Officer, that’s quite enough,” she said simply. 

Phryne’s calm only enraged the man further. He began his tirade over again, now with Phryne as the object. Jack didn’t think FitzPatrick carried a service revolver, but knew he could do plenty of damage by striking Phryne in anger with his nightstick or his fist. 

Now Jack stepped in, moving physically closer to the man than would have been wise for either woman. Jack summoned the authoritative tone he used with every new Constable under his own command. “STOP,” he said sharply, staring at the younger officer until he turned his attention from Phryne and ceased yelling. “Leave at once, Officer,” Jack commanded. 

FitzPatrick seemed confused, recognizing the authority in Jack’s tone although he did not recognize the man. 

Jack took advantageous of the confusion and stepped in closer, repeating his command at closer range, “Leave. Now.” 

The younger officer blinked, looked at Jack once more, then did as he was told. 

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Jack and Phryne said goodbye to Kate and Luddy at the corner of 57th and Broadway with promises to meet again in the morning to continue working the case. 

Head pounding, Jack hailed a second cab to take he and Phryne back to the hotel. 

Phryne, lost in her own thoughts, gazed out at the lights of the city. Jack placed a gentle hand on her cheek and turned her head to face him. “When are we going home to Melbourne?” he asked quietly. “I don’t like this city at all.” 


	6. Interlude of Angst

**March 19, 1930**

Wednesday morning in Manhattan dawned grey and slightly colder. Phryne, wrapped in her favorite black silk dressing gown, held a strip of motion picture film up to the light of the hotel suite’s large window. Daylight provided more illumination than the floor lamp, but the images on the film strip remained as inscrutable as they had been last night. 

The film, part of a bundle of ten strips, were the only items present in the small cardboard box that Glesca Marshall had presented at the club last night – the box that the murdered man, Ephraim Alexandrov, had delivered to the theater shortly before his demise. The only items, that is, aside from a business card embossed with a downtown address and no name. Nine of the film strips contained images of scantily clad women, risqué, but not obscene. One contained an image of a dead body lying in alley, shot up but automatic weapons fire. There was no note in the box. And, to Phryne, the evidence made absolutely no sense. 

“Eureka moment?” Jack asked, entering the suite. 

“What darling?” Phryne responded absently, replacing the film strip in her hand with another and holding it up to the light in turn. 

“Nothing,” Jack said, placing the morning paper on the breakfast table near the coffee service and pastries and placing a quick kiss on her cheek. Phryne's smile was open and bright. 

“I ran into the maid in the hallway,” he continued. “The laundry couldn’t remove all the blood from your coat.” Jack held the garment in question as he spoke, then laid it across the back of a wing chair. 

“Doesn’t surprise me, really,” Phryne said, turning her attention to the fabric she had used to cover the unfortunate victim in the alleyway. “You should have seen my scarf.” 

“Rather glad I didn’t,” Jack added, overlapping her words. 

“One more reminder of this stubborn case I can’t solve,” Phryne added. 

“Or we could turn it over to the proper authorities,” Jack said sardonically, already knowing her answer. 

“The authorities I've encountered so far aren't proper,” Phryne responded. "And I thought we tabled that discussion last night." 

“Yes, and now it’s morning,” Jack said, some sharpness creeping back into his tone. "You said Detective Enright seemed competent." 

“Not competent enough to take my help. Now, if you’d come over here and help me ponder the evidence, we might get somewhere.” Phryne handed Jack a film strip. He rolled his eyes, but played along, holding the strip up to the light. “What do you see?” 

“Same thing as last night,” Jack answered. “A woman, somewhat familiar looking, in a dark sheer dress, lounging provocatively on a chaise. It has to be blackmail.” 

“But woman is not Nazimova. And where’s the blackmail request? And who would kill a blackmailer to protect Nazimova when she didn’t even know she was being blackmailed?” 

“You only have Glesca’s word on that point – that she or Nazimova didn’t know the victim.” 

“Yes, but I trust her.” 

“Then I don’t know, Phryne.” 

“And you don’t seem to care.” Phryne’s anger rose with her frustration, at the case and at the stubborn man before her. 

“Not when I have unsolved cases stacked up back in Melbourne that actually _are_ my responsibility.” 

“I didn’t realize I had inconvenienced you so greatly by inviting you to New York.” Phryne stood up and crossed the room. Reaching the bedside table, she took a cigarette from her case, lit it, and took a deep drag. 

“Phryne,” Jack began, realizing that the disagreement had escalated farther than he intended. 

“No, Jack,” Phryne responded, her anger still growing. “ _This_ case is my responsibility. The man died in my arms. I didn’t go looking for that, Jack. It’s not a lark, and it’s not something I can drop until it’s properly resolved. The police…” She stopped and crossed the room again, grabbing the newspaper from the breakfast table. “Did you even read the headlines this morning? Four officers in Brooklyn were arrested yesterday on suspicion of bribery. The constables can’t search a crime scene or take a witness statement properly. Half of them are working for the bootleggers. If I don’t work this case, Jack, there will be no justice for the victim.” 

“What do you want me to say, Phryne?” 

“I’d like you to support me and help with this investigation. It’s what we do.” 

“It’s what we do in _Melbourne_ , where I have some standing and legal authority.” 

Phryne turned on her heel with a huff. She strode to the armoire and pulled out a pair of black trousers and black and white patterned blouse, then slammed the furniture shut and stormed to the bathroom. 

Jack followed and continued his speech from the doorway. 

“I am helping you, Phryne. It is my professional judgement that this case requires the resources and authority of a police department. Ballistics evaluations. Autopsy reports. Legal warrants that might compel truth and cooperation. And you’re withholding evidence. You could be charged with obstruction.” 

Phryne emerged, fully dressed and still furious. “Is that all?” 

“We could also discuss how you’re likely to get yourself killed poking hornet’s nests in a foreign city.” 

“I was waiting for that one, Jack. We both know what happened that last time you worked yourself into a frenzy about my cavalier approach to danger. Let’s cut to the chase, darling. You’re not my father and you’re not my husband, and you can’t prohibit me from doing what I know to be right.” 

“So I’m the obstruction.” 

“If the shoe fits, Inspector.” 

Jack grew quiet. “There’s really no partnership between us anymore, is there Phryne? There’s what you want to do, when you want to do it, and what I choose to go along with.” 

Phryne eyes brimmed with unshed tears, but she held her ground. “I’m late to meet Kate, Jack. Will you be here when I get back?” 

“No,” he replied, barely holding back his own tears. “I don’t think so.” 

Phryne turned and left the room. 


	7. Later, Wednesday Morning

A few hours later, Phryne heard the bell ring above the door of a French café near Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village. It was an artists’ café, and in other circumstances, she would have happily wiled away the hours with a good book, chatting with the other patrons and watching the neighborhood characters come and go. In this circumstance, however, she flipped once more through the morning newspaper, lit another cigarette, and brooded about way she and Jack found themselves at cross purposes over this case. 

Phryne was genuinely cheered to see Kate stride through the door a few minutes later, and found herself, somewhat uncharacteristically, standing to greet her new friend with a hug and kiss on the cheek. 

“Good morning, darling. Thank you for meeting me so early.” Phryne said. “Coffee?” 

Phryne opened the paper to the theater listings and slid it over to Kate. “Have you seen this notice for your play? It’s wonderful.” 

Kate read from the advertisement, “’Eunice Stoddard is most natural and charming.’ Well, she is, isn’t she? I suppose with these reviews she won’t be able to join our Ladies Detective Agency in Europe this summer after all.” 

“We can use a smaller plane then,” Phryne countered. 

“Faster, I hope,” Kate replied. “Will you teach me how to fly?” 

“Of course,” Phryne smiled. _Where had this sort of bantering playfulness gone between her and Jack?_ , she thought, then pushed the unwelcome notion from her mind just as quickly. “And I will look forward to the first glowing review of your work on stage, Kate. Soon you won’t have time to help me with investigations either.” 

Kate smiled warmly, suspecting that stardom provided thrills far greater than flying. 

"Where's your handsome Inspector?" Kate asked. 

“We’re on our own this morning,” Phryne responded, forcing a lightness into her tone. 

Kate raised a knowing eyebrow. 

“We had rather a big row earlier,” Phryne admitted. “He’s anxious to get back to Melbourne. I feel an obligation to stay here at present. We expressed our opinions rather forcefully.” 

Kate simply listened, giving Phryne her full concentrated attention. 

“It’s possible I may have been in the wrong,” Phryne continued, with more than a hint of self-deprecation. “Or at least I could have expressed my absolutely correct position with a little more finesse.” 

“Shouldn’t you be confessing all of this to Jack instead of me?” Kate replied, a wryness in her tone suggesting that the she knew - and was forgiving of - all manner of human foibles in matters of the heart. 

“Yes, but you’re much easier to talk to right now,” Phryne replied, her eyes conveying real appreciation for the ease she felt in Kate’s friendship. 

“Honestly, I’m not sure I know how to do this with Jack,” she continued. “You see, this romantic aspect of our partnership was rather new when I had to leave Australia last fall. But our working relationship – our friendship – was never this hard before. Our work together used to be a joy – sometimes dangerous, sometimes frustrating – but mostly, a joy.” 

“You were apart for a long time,” Kate said evenly. 

“Yes,” Phryne responded. “Perhaps I over-estimated how easily we could pick things back up.” 

Kate squeezed Phryne’s hand in a gesture of sisterly solidarity. 

“In any case,” Phryne continued, “I can’t fix things with Jack as long as this case is between us. He’s made that much clear. And what we have immediately before us is a set of clues that are utterly confounding.” Phryne took the box of film strips from her bag and passed them to Kate. “Do these images mean anything to you? Jack is convinced they signal blackmail.” 

Kate stood from the table and walked to the picture window at the front of the café for better light. She moved methodically through the strips examining each one. Satisfied, she returned to the table. 

“Definitely not Nazimova, or anyone else at the theater,” Kate concluded. “The woman in the photo is Norma Shearer.” 

“The movie actress?” 

“Yes. She's under contract at MGM. Can you imagine? But look here, at the expression on her face, and at the furniture and the style of the room. These are from a picture. She’s on set, in character. No doubt.” 

“Aahh,” Phryne added. “Yes, I thought there was something staged about the other film strip with the crime scene. Gun-shot victims aren’t that, well, they aren’t generally that symmetrically posed.” 

“But if these are from a picture,” Kate continued, “or even several pictures, there's not ones I’ve seen. And I do try to see everything. Based on Norma’s state of undress, they’re not from a picture that made it past the censor board.” 

“Movies are censored in America?” Phryne asked, indignant. 

“In certain states,” Kate answered. “Maybe nationally, soon. There’s always talk of adding a federal prohibition.” 

“How does it work?” 

“The state censor boards get the prints from the studios before they’re released to the public. They cut out the sections that won’t pass muster with the Catholics or the proper old ladies in Dubuque.” 

Phryne had never heard of Dubuque, but suspected she knew something of the moralizing nature of their proper old ladies from Kate's tone. “So these could be the censored bits of a film that hasn’t yet been released?" 

“Quite possibly,” Kate agreed. 

“But what has any of this to do with Nazimova, or poor Mr. Alexandrov?” Phryne wondered. 

“I have absolutely no idea,” Kate said with a deep laugh. She picked up the card with the embossed address and twirled it in her hand. “One clue remaining.” 

“You’re a natural, Kate,” Phryne said with admiration. “Let’s go.” 

* * *

Four blocks away – having passed at least a dozen basement level speakeasies and a half dozen “cordial” shops, New York’s new euphemism for the neighborhood liquor store – Phryne and Kate found the address in question – 266 Bleeker Street. 

“It’s a bookshop,” Phryne exclaimed at the entryway. “Not at all what I expected.” 

Pushing the heavy wooden door open, Phryne encountered another surprise in the form of a most deliciously familiar man in a brown trench coat and fedora, leaning at the front counter in conversation with a grey-haired man and a much younger woman. 

“Hello Jack!” she said brightly, as if they were meeting at a Melbourne crime scene. 

“Miss Fisher, Miss Hepburn,” he replied, his tone professional but warm. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, doing her best to match his tone. 

“I’m a detective, Miss Fisher,” he responded, catching her eye and holding her gaze longer than sheer professionalism would allow. “It’s what I do.” 

Phryne answered with a wry smile. _Touché_ she thought, and strode forward, offering her hand to the man behind the counter. “Phryne Fisher,” she said confidently, “and my companion, Kate Hepburn.” 

“How do you do,” the man replied. 

“Mr. Ivan Orlov, the proprietor,” Jack explained. “And his daughter Ana. They were both friends of Mr. Alexandrov and understandably devastated to hear of his passing.” 

“My condolences to you both,” Phryne replied. “I was with Mr. Alexandrov in his final moments. I wish I could have done more for him.” 

The younger woman, Ana, took Phryne’s hand. “Thank you. We’re grateful that you were there. This city can be very cold for ordinary people.” 

“Do you have the box, Miss Fisher?” Jack inquired. 

“Yes, certainly. Kate?” 

Kate retrieved the box of film strips from her bag and handed them to Jack. 

“We have a bit of theory now,” Phryne added. “Thanks to Kate.” 

“Let’s allow the Orlovs a moment to look them over, and then we can compare theories.” 

This was the old Jack, Phryne thought, working the investigation methodically, confidently, step by small step. 

“Jack,” she interjected, a higher sing song pitch in her voice. “Might I speak with you privately?” 

Jack nodded. Phryne laced her arm through the crook of his elbow and led him to a quieter spot among the bookshelves, shielded from the others at the front counter. 

“I’m sorry,” she said simply, her voice now in its deeper register and rough with emotion. “I overreacted, in anger, and I hurt you.” She placed a hand on his cheek. “It was never my intention to hurt you, Jack. Can you forgive me?” 

Jack closed his eyes as she spoke, then took her hand. “I’ve already forgiven you, Phryne. Still, it’s nice to hear the words.” 

Phryne gazed up at him, attempting to read everything still unsaid in his expression. “I love you, you know. I should have said that earlier too.” 

Jack pulled her into a tight embrace, fighting back tears for the second time this morning. “I love you,” he whispered. After a moment that felt like a lifetime, Jack pulled back from the embrace with a smile. “This might not be the right setting to explore that further, hmm?” 

“Then I suppose we should hurry up and solve this case,” Phryne responded, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. 

* * *

Moments later, Ivan Orlov escorted Jack, Phryne and Kate down a dark flight of stairs into his basement storeroom. As the light flickered overhead, Phryne made out boxes and boxes of banned and censored books. Reaching for a copy of _Lady Chatterly’s Lover_ , Phryne flipped through the pages and confirmed that Mr. Orlov was stockpiling the full, unexpurgated version – the version branded obscene by the U.S. Government.

“It’s not a lucrative part of our business,” Ivan explained. “We could use this same area for beer or liquor and make ten, or maybe a hundred times the profit.” He shook his head. “That’s not trouble I wanted. Dealing with thugs, paying off cops. I am a bookseller.” Ivan said the last word proudly, as if he held the written word to be the highest form of human art.

“Please, continue,” Jack said.

“Ephraim and I knew something of oppression in Russia. We believed that America was a haven for free speech, for free expression. Yet even this morning, the paper says the Senators would vote to make book censorship stronger, confiscating more books at the piers. Even theater, yes, Miss Hepburn? The actress Mae West is on trial right now for an indecent play. In Manhattan. We must resist.”

“I understand your anger, Mr. Orlov,” Phryne responded. “I believe any just government would restrict human expression as little as possible.”

“But that is not the government we have, is it?” Ivan replied. “That is why we began to protect the films as well. Ephraim learned where to retrieve the film strips from the state censor’s office. See – Look here.”

Ivan opened a metal file cabinet to reveal folder after folder of film strips, each labelled with film name and year of production. “This is preservation, you see. A labor of love, not profit.”

“And why did he approach Miss Nazimova with these film strips Monday night?” Jack asked.

“Because she too knew censorship,” Ivan responded. 

“Her _Salomé_ ,” Phryne added. “I saw it in London.”

“A work of art, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Nazimova commissioned it as well – produced it with her own money. Ephraim thought she would be sympathetic to our cause.”

“But why would this meeting put Mr. Alexandrov in mortal danger?” Phryne asked. “From what we understand he wasn’t able to speak with Nazimova that night.”

“This is all I know,” Ivan answered.

“One more question,” Jack said, using his most professional tone. “Where were you Monday night?”

“Me!” Ivan huffed.

“It’s a formality, Mr. Orlov,” Phryne said soothingly. “Inspector Robinson must rule out everyone who had recent contact with the victim.”

“I was here, working. Ana will tell you. I don’t own a gun. I’ve been a pacifist since I escaped the czar’s army.”

“Thank you, Mr. Orlov,” Jack replied.

As the group turned towards the stairs to return to main floor, Phryne heard a loud banging noise overhead, quickly followed by a shriek from Ana. 

Before Jack could reach the basement door, it swung open from the opposite side. Detective Enright, the investigator in charge at the 18th precinct, moved swiftly down the stairs followed by four uniformed officers. They brushed past Jack and Phryne to reach Ivan at the base of the stairwell.

“Ivan Orlov. You’re under arrest for the murder of Ephraim Alexandrov.” Enright stated. A uniformed officer – who Phryne soon recognized as the noxious FitzPatrick – wrenched Ivan’s arms behind his back and slapped on handcuffs.

“What’s the meaning of this, Enright?” Jack said.

Phryne swiveled her head. How did they know one another?

“None of your business Robinson,” he replied. “You have absolutely no authority here.”

Without another word, Enright and his officers wrestled Ivan up the stairs, to the sidewalk, and into a waiting police cruiser.

Kate comforted Ana Orlav. “I’ll call my husband. We’ll find a lawyer for your father.”

Stunned, Phryne approached Jack on the sidewalk outside the book shop.

“Would you like to tell me how you know Detective Enright?” she asked.

“This wasn’t my first stop after we parted this morning,” Jack replied.

“Go on.”

“I went to the 18th precinct, intending to file a complaint against Officer FitzPatrick for his behavior at the club last night. I spoke with Enright, but he treated me with utter contempt. No respect for me as a fellow officer.”

“So you learned that I was right,” Phryne said. “Isn’t that interesting.”

“About the New York City police? Yes, you were right. As I waited for Enright in the foyer, a bootlegger came into the station and handed out his weekly bribes like candy.”

“Well, well,” she replied.

“Phryne, stop. We’re not keeping score on this matter. You were right, and I’m terrified. The State of Victoria votes on Prohibition at the end of this month. From what I’ve seen here, it will devastate my police force.”

“You’re right, Jack. I shouldn’t make light of it.”

“Thank you.” 

“And now the thoroughly corrupt Detective Enright has our man in custody for a crime he didn’t commit and we are completely out of leads.”

Jack leaned back against the wall of the book shop. “That about sums it up.”

“What do we do next, Inspector?” Phryne asked.

“We turn up a new lead, Miss Fisher,” he replied, taking her hand. “I believe you once told me that uncovering the truth was the thing we did best together.

Phryne broke into a wide smile. “Yes, well that was before we had practice in other activities.”

Jack beamed.

“Kate!” Phryne called, opening the door to the book shop. “Call us at the hotel later. We’ll reconnoiter tonight and figure out our next move.”


	8. Interlude of Connection

**March 19, 1930 -- late evening**

“Feeling better, darling?” Phryne asked. 

Jack emerged from the en suite bathroom, freshly washed, buttoning up a clean white shirt. 

“Much,” he replied. “Although I’m not sure I could get used to this New York practice of going out for the evening at 11 o’clock.” 

“Theater people,” Phryne answered, though her attention was less on her answer and more on the need to touch the beautiful man in front of her, which she did, without reservation. 

With Kate at work at the theater for the evening’s performance and the investigation temporarily at a standstill, they’d spent a delicious few hours back at the hotel reconnecting. Phryne felt like she had fallen in love with Jack all over again. It was extraordinary, she thought, this quicksilver mixture of novelty and familiarity that she had only ever experienced with him. When they were at their best, as they were right now, it felt like flying. 

“What time are we due at Kate’s?” he asked, breaking the kiss before he reached a point of no return. 

“Soon,” she said with a sigh. After a glance at the clock, she amended her answer, “Well, now.” 

Jack gave her one more quick kiss and helped her into her coat. 

“If it was only Kate, I’d beg off,” Phryne continued. “But Luddy is waiting already, and we really should arrive before Ana Orlov.” 

“I’m just glad we can do this at Kate and Luddy’s apartment,” Jack responded, shrugging on his jacket. “I wasn’t keen on another encounter with the police at a neighborhood watering hole.” 

“This will be better for Ana too,” Phryne said as they exited the suite for the elevator. “I don’t know that she knows anything relevant that might help us get to the bottom of things, but she certainly knows more than we do.” 

“Do you have Kate’s address?” Jack asked. 

Phryne searched her coat pocket. “I wrote it down. Here. East 39th Street,” she said as elevator arrived. “Jack, look at this.” 

Phryne unfolded the paper she had pulled from her coat pocket. It was the flier she had received just before meeting the unfortunate Mr. Alexandrov in the theater alley – the one shouting “NO” at a long list of sins supposedly committed by the new modern woman. 

“The night of the murder, a woman dressed all in black stepped out of the shadows near the theater and handed me this. I was going to toss it out, but I thought Mac might find it perversely funny, so I stuffed it in my pocket and promptly forgot about it.” 

“And?” Jack asked, not seeing the connection. 

“Well it’s entirely circumstantial, and maybe nothing at all, but it seems that we’ve encountered many of these offenses against tradition in this case,” Phryne said. “And now, I’ve noticed the name of an organization on the flier. What if someone there has taken a more forceful approach to the conversion of sinners?” 

“But wouldn’t the people who made this flier find all of New York to be an offense to their belief system? Isn’t that their point in pushing Prohibition or censorship through the laws? How does that give them motive against one particular man?” 

“I don’t know,” Phryne answered. “Yet. But I do have a strong feeling it’s all connected.” 

“We’ll ask Ana Orlov if the group ever threatened them at the bookshop,” Jack responded. “I trust your intuition, but we’ll need facts to save Ivan.” 

Phryne simply nodded. He was right. They were on the same path.

Exiting the elevator a moment later, Phryne grabbed Jack’s hand and pulled him to a quiet corner of the lobby for a passionate kiss. “You are an extraordinary man, Jack Robinson." 

“I’m grateful to hear it, Phryne, but entirely unsure what I’ve done in the last five minutes to bring this on.” Jack’s voice was light and teasing, but somehow guileless at the same time. He truly didn’t know. 

“You are the only man I’ve ever met who is able and willing and maybe even delighted to be my equal partner. You honestly have no idea how rare it is for a woman to find that in a man.” 

“I’m not _doing_ anything,” Jack responded with a laugh. “It’s just who I am with you.” 

“I know darling,” Phryne said, taking his hand as they walked together towards the lobby exit. “And that’s what makes you extraordinary.” 


	9. Much Later That Night

Phryne and Jack arrived in front of Kate’s building on East 39th & Lexington, exiting their cab just as Kate was climbing the stairs to the entryway. 

“Hello, Kate!” Phryne called out joyfully. “How was the show tonight?” 

“Uneventful,” Kate responded, pausing at the top of the stoop. “Particularly in the murder category. All the drama remained on stage.” 

“As it should be,” Phryne responded. She eyed the cigarette Kate removed from her bag and gestured for one of her own. Jack eyed them both. 

He leaned in close to Phryne and said with a low rumble, “I thought you were going to give those up again.” 

Phryne exhaled a billowing puff of white smoke. “I am, darling. Just as soon as we get to Melbourne.” 

Jack smirked and held her gaze. This was his sparkling, complex Phryne in miniature. He knew she didn’t care about the cigarettes enough to make a real stand and would eventually let them go, but would do so through her own reasoning and on her own time-table. 

Kate interrupted. “Jack, why don’t you go up and see what Luddy’s up to. We’ll be up in a minute, before Ana Orlov arrives.” 

Jack acceded graciously, leaving Kate & Phryne alone on the front stoop. 

“Are things better?” Kate asked. 

“Between, Jack and I? It’s been a roller coaster of a day. But, yes, much better.” 

“Eunice learned tonight that MGM wants to offer her a screen test. Someone read the review,” Kate continued, changing topics but suggesting some underlying connection through her tone. 

“Based on her good reviews? How wonderful,” Phryne said. “Would you move up from understudy if she leaves for Hollywood?” 

“Well, I don’t think it happens quite that fast,” Kate responded. “I’m not sure Eunice would take the opportunity. Her heart is with the theater.” 

Phryne read the meaning in Kate’s pause. “But your heart longs for Hollywood?” 

Kate smiled. “It’s the one place where I truly differ from Mother and Father – isn’t that strange? If I’m going to be an actress, they want me to do Shakespeare and Shaw. Worthy stuff. But that big screen, Phryne. There’s something magic there.” 

“Second-guessing your desires, Kate? That doesn’t seem like you.” 

“It’s not. At least not often. But I do have some obligation to Luddy, don’t I?” 

Ah, here was the connection, Phryne thought. “He wouldn’t follow you to Hollywood?” 

“I haven’t told you this story, have I? When we decided to get married, I quit theater. We lived outside of Philadelphia, near Bryn Mawr where I went to school, and I made a sincere attempt to be a proper society wife.” 

Phryne laughed heartily in response, trying, and failing, to imagine in such circumstances. 

“It’s true!” Kate continued. “I lasted all of two weeks! And then we moved right back here to New York. With no complaints from my new husband. But Hollywood -- even dear Luddy has his limits.” 

“Somewhere around the Rocky Mountains,” Phryne suggested drolly. 

“I suspect his dividing line might be even further east. I’ve never seen him west of the Alleghanies.” Kate laughed in turn, but Phryne could also read the ambition and determination in her friend’s eyes. 

“You’ll pursue it anyway, won’t you?” Phryne added, her tone now warm and supportive. 

“Yes,” Kate said simply, taking another drag on her cigarette. 

“Good,” Phryne replied. 

“You and Jack are fortunate,” Kate added. “Fortunate to have your ambitions lie in the same field – fortunate that you can work together. I think it would be marvelous to find something that rare.” 

* * *

Nearly an hour later, the two couples sat upstairs in Kate & Luddy’s living room deep in conversation with Ana Orlov. Earlier in the day, Luddy had procured an excellent and high-priced defense lawyer for Ivan Orlov. The lawyer, accustomed to dealing with these kinds of ridiculous charges – Police Commissioner Whalen saw every Russian immigrant as a potential Communist threat – felt sure he could get Ivan out on bail the next morning. The issue now for the Orlov family was whether or not the charges would get dropped before they had to sell the bookstore to pay for their legal defense. And that meant the real culprit had to been found as quickly as possible. 

To that end, Jack and Phryne had asked Ana dozens of routine questions about her father’s life, finances, and history with Ephraim Alexandrov, the murder victim. 

Ana was forthcoming. Their black-market book customers were a small and stable group of literature professors, left-leaning writers, and a smattering of political radicals – like Phryne’s red raggers, they might have beefs with industrialists and authorities, but not with Ivan or Ephraim. On the opposite side of the political spectrum, Ana couldn’t recall any trouble with pro-censorship or religious groups, including the group mentioned on the flier Phryne picked up in Times Square the night of the murder. More dead ends. 

Sometime after midnight, Luddy’s interest flagged and he excused himself to retire for the evening. Kate dozed in the corner armchair. Jack paced between the living room and adjoining kitchen, ready to call it a night and pick up in the morning once Ivan was out on bail. Still, Phryne persisted. 

“We must be overlooking something in Mr. Alexandrov’s background,” Phryne said. “Do you know how he got his hands on the strips of censored film?” 

“The film he attempted to deliver to Nazimova?” Ana asked in response. 

Jack regained interest with this line of questioning, taking a seat near Phryne to rejoin the conversation. 

“Yes, that film,” Jack answered. “But also the process overall. Your father said Mr. Alexandrov had a contact in the state censor’s office – in the state capitol, I gather. Do you know who?” 

“Oh, it wasn’t here in New York,” Ana answered. “It was the New Jersey censorship board. Ephraim knew several people in state government there.” 

“How so?” Phryne asked. 

“He gave flying lessons to the governor’s daughter,” Ana answered. “She wants to fly in the next Women’s Air Derby.” 

“Ephraim was a pilot.” Phryne repeated. “Now this is getting interesting.” 

“Were Mr. Alexandrov and the governor’s daughter romantically involved?” Jack asked. 

“Nothing like that,” Ana answered. “The daughter, Florence, butted heads with her father on almost everything. He didn’t think she should fly, or drink, or go to jazz clubs here in the city. He thought that she was old enough to leave that all behind and settle down.” 

“Let me guess,” Phryne said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “she was the ripe old age of twenty-two.” 

Jack jumped in, trying to keep the questioning on track by pinning down motive. “How confrontational was the governor? Did Mr. Alexandrov say he felt threatened by anyone?” 

“Ephraim didn’t scare easily, Mr. Robinson. Neither did Florence,” Ana replied. 

“So, to your knowledge, were the lessons still ongoing?” Jack continued. 

“I believe they were due to fly they day Ephraim was killed,” Ana answered. 

“Do you know how we can reach the governor’s daughter?” 

“No. I never met her. I only listened to Ephraim’s stories when he came to the store.” 

“The daughter of a governor can’t be too hard to find,” Phryne stated. She stood up, took two steps towards the kitchen, and had a new thought almost as soon as she changed position. 

“Jack!” she exclaimed. “I know exactly where she’ll be tomorrow!” 

Phryne quickly retrieved the morning paper from the kitchen counter, spread it open, and pointed a finger to small item on B12. “The Women in Aviation Luncheon. Tomorrow at the Hotel Astor. Guest speakers to include Florence Trumbull – if we’re lucky that will be our Florence, yes, Ana?” 

Ana nodded in response. 

“We truly are lucky,” Phryne continued with delight. “The luncheon’s keynote speaker is noted Australian aviator Jessie Keith Miller, the very first woman to fly from Australia to England.” 

Jack shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and admiration. “Of course.” 

“Kate, where can I send a wire at this hour?” Phryne continued triumphantly. “It’s early afternoon in Melbourne. Certainly someone in my Adventurer’s Club can put us in touch with noted aviator Miller in the next few hours for a couple of tickets to the luncheon. We’ll learn everything Miss Trumbull knows before the dessert course.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I reference a number of real people and places throughout the story, I wanted to point out two places here where I take poetic license. Although a dozen states had film censorship boards, New Jersey was not one of them, but I couldn't fit New York's actual governor, Franklin D. Roosevelt into the other facts of the story. And, Florence Trumbull Coolidge (married to the son of President Calvin Coolidge) was actually the daughter of the Governor of Connecticut -- when he told her to give up flying, she did so willingly (and it made headlines). This story needed a non-compliant daughter :-)


	10. The Next Day

**March 20, 1930**

Sometime before noon the next day, Phryne  & Kate approached the Hotel Astor, the legendary Times Square behemoth that took up a full block at the corner of 45th & Broadway. As they approached the main entrance, Phryne noticed a woman in drab black Victorian dress at the northeast corner of the building, thrusting pamphlets towards the onrushing crowd. 

“Kate, look there!” Phryne called to her companion. “The woman at the corner is dressed exactly like the woman I saw near the theater before Mr. Alexandrov was killed.” 

“Is it the same woman?” Kate asked. 

“I don’t think so,” Phryne replied, stepping closer. “I believe the woman on Monday night was older, but the dress is exactly the same. Almost like a uniform of some sort.” 

“Or strange religious habit,” Kate offered. 

“Have you seen others in the neighborhood?” Phryne asked. 

“Now that you point her out, yes,” Kate answered. “But I never paid them much mind. New York is full of people standing on sidewalks handing out advertisements.” 

“These women aren’t pushing the lunch special,” Phryne replied. “Let’s see if the text is the same as the one I received Monday night.” 

Before they could reach the woman, Phryne noticed an older man approach the black-garbed woman from behind and engage her in conversation. He was in a suit, and well-dressed enough, but not in the city style she’d seen on so many New York businessmen. 

Phryne pulled Kate under an eave where they could watch unobtrusively. “Cigarette?” Phryne inquired. “Sometimes it’s all the cover we need.” 

The young woman seemed mesmerized as the man spoke, Phryne observed, yet that word had too positive a connotation for what Phryne was witnessing. The young woman’s postured signaled subservience and her eyes, while attentive, seemed blank, even dim. The man conducted himself with an air of unquestioned authority towards the young woman, scrutinizing the minute details of her costume and correcting her method of holding and thrusting the fliers. The young woman flinched when he got too close, and then tried to cover up the flinching to avoid further correction. 

“What do you think, Kate?” she inquired, passing the now lit cigarette to her friend. 

“Abusive,” Kate responded simply. “She’s in some sort of danger.” 

But before Phryne could reply further, she herself was approached from the opposite direction by a woman with an entirely different energy. 

“Phryne Fisher!” the new woman called out exuberantly. “Don’t tell me you flew your Gipsy Moth all the way to New York!” 

“Opal Steves!” Phryne responded, mirroring the other woman’s enthusiasm. Opal was the final link in the chain of telegrams set in motion the previous evening through the Melbourne Adventurer’s Club – an accomplished Australian pilot who’d come to American in search of a larger playing field and embraced it with gusto. 

“How could I have possibly accomplished an Atlantic Crossing without it coming to your attention?” Phryne continued. “My little Moth barely made it from Broome to Penang last fall.” 

“You’re in the market for a new plane, then?” Opal replied. “Come along inside. And bring your wallet,” she quipped. “These women are going to love you.” 

Phryne gestured for Kate to follow and three women marched into the Astor for the Women in Aviation luncheon. The plight of the unfortunate young woman on the street would have to wait a little longer. There was a lead to follow towards a murderer. 

* * *

Following the salad, speeches, and main course, Phryne and Kate corralled Florence Trumbull to a quiet rear table for coffee and dessert. 

Earlier, upon initial introductions, Florence was shocked to learn of the death of her flight instructor and the incompetence of the New York police in the manner. She pledged her cooperation with Phryne’s investigation. 

“Florence, you spoke eloquently from the podium about the necessity of training more female pilots,” Phryne began. “Yet a friend told us that your father has tried to discourage you from flying. Did he ever have words with Mr. Alexandrov to that effect?” 

“My father is the Governor of New Jersey,” Florence huffed, edging back in her chair. 

“I understand,” Phryne continued, treading carefully, “and I don’t intend to suggest anything untoward without evidence. I’m simply trying to learn the facts about any conflicts Mr. Alexandrov may have had before his death.” 

“Miss Fisher is very discrete,” Kate added, attempting to reassure Florence. “The Australian police rely upon her in just these kinds of circumstances.” 

Kate’s performance in that one line was masterful, Phryne thought, sincere and comforting, without a trace of falseness. It did the trick. Florence relaxed. 

“My father is under a great deal of pressure. He’s up for re-election this year, and between joblessness everywhere and lawlessness in the cities – New York’s not the only place where the police have been corrupted because of Prohibition – his race is going to be very difficult.” 

“You support your father’s re-election,” Phryne replied, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. 

“Yes. He’s an excellent governor,” Florence said with conviction. “We differ on my personal choices, my desire for a career, but that’s a family matter, not a political one, at least for Father.” 

Phryne listened carefully. “Are the others who would make it a political matter?” she ventured. 

“I can’t imagine that’s relevant,” Florence said. 

“Miss Trumbull, I’ve learned that most important clues are sometimes found in the least likely locations. If there’s anything out of the ordinary.” 

“There is a minister – I’m using that term generously – who would like to turn my rift with Father into a larger issue. He’s constantly sending letters and telegrams denouncing Father for my behavior. It’s not unusual for elected officials to attract fanatics, Miss Fisher. It rather comes with the territory. Mother says we should ignore them – go high when they go low, as it were.” 

“But you suspect more with this particular man,” Phryne replied. 

“He showed up at the airfield one day last week, during my flying lesson with Mr. Alexandrov. Once we landed, he surrounded the plane with a group of women all dressed in black, very old fashioned looking. They were praying for me to repent. Chanting. It shouldn’t have been threatening, yet there was something about his command of the women.” 

Phryne caught Kate’s eye, exchanging a glance of recognition. 

“How did Mr. Alexandrov react?” Phryne asked. 

“He pushed right past the minister and escorted me to my car. As I drove away, I thought I saw them exchanging words.” 

“And that was the last time you saw Mr. Alexandrov?” 

“Yes,” Florence replied, struck by a wave of remorse as she made the connection. “I didn’t think… I mean, I didn’t even know Ephraim was dead until I met you.” 

“Florence, you are going to help us bring justice for Mr. Alexandrov.” 

“How?” 

“You have a new flight instructor,” Phryne said with a flourish. “I’d like you to call a press conference for tomorrow afternoon at the same airfield. Can you do that?” 

“If you think it will help,” she answered. 

“It will do more than help,” Phryne stated, energized and confident. “We’re going to a lay a trap to flush out a killer.” 

* * *

A few hours later, Phryne and Jack were mid-conversation in their hotel room as Phryne brought him up to speed. 

“I have no objection to the man’s religion, such as it may be, or his ideology,” Phryne said. 

“Well,” Jack interrupted. 

“Of course, Jack. I do object, philosophically, but he has free speech rights, freedom of religion and all those fine American guarantees. It may not even be a crime to coerce the women as he does – I have no evidence there. But if he continued the fight with Ephraim that Florence witnessed at the airfield. If he followed him in to the city and murdered him in cold blood for teaching her to fly…” 

“You have no evidence of that either.” 

“We will. Tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Phryne.” 

“I’m not being cavalier, Jack. It’s a good plan.” 

“My objection is a to any plan where you offer yourself as bait for a murderer.” 

“Do you have a ready alternative, Inspector?” 

Jack shook his head no. 

“It’s a manageable risk.” 

“You said yourself that this so-called man of God is a fanatic.” 

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he’ll kill recklessly in every instance. He shot Ephraim at close range, in a darkened alley.” 

“Perhaps after a struggle,” Jack added. 

“Exactly. And got away clean. He made no effort to harm Florence, or anyone else at the luncheon today. He didn’t even come inside, despite the cauldron of female sinners inside the ballroom. There’s some sense of self-preservation in the man that we can use to our advantage. We draw him in out in the crowd. Avoid dark alleys.” 

Jack couldn’t help but smirk in response to her last sentence. And the plan was as good as they were likely to devise without police resources. 

Going through her own rituals of self-preservation, Phryne examined the mechanism of her pearl-handled revolver as she spoke, checking that every aspect was in full working order. 

“How _did_ you get that into the country?” 

“I don’t think I should say,” her tone heading towards the high pitch she used when faced with uncomfortable questions. 

“Here,” he said, reaching for the weapon. 

“You’re not taking away my gun.” 

“I’m going to clean it for you,” Jack replied, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket. 

Phryne handed it over with a smile and a quip. “That might be your most romantic overture yet.” 

Jack’s response was to kiss her, soundly, before resuming his task. 

“Bullets?” he asked. 

“Don’t suppose that’s something we can get from the concierge.” 

“I’ll go out for bullets,” Jack said. 

“What would I do without you, darling,” she teased. 

“Let’s not try and find out.” 


	11. At the Airfield

**March 21, 1930**

“What do you think?” Kate asked, stepping out of a makeshift dressing room in a New Jersey airfield hangar. 

“Very impressive on short notice,” Phryne answered, surveying Kate’s costume, an important theatrical element in the plan they were putting in motion in a just a few short hours. 

“The black dress was easy enough to find in costume storage,” Kate continued, “but I’m not certain if the accessories are a perfect match. We saw her for such a brief time.” 

Phryne placed her hands on Kate’s shoulders, smoothing the fabric and adjusting the drape of the garment. “This should do. Enough of a resemblance to provoke a reaction from our mark, in any case. Did Florence tell you his name, by the way? I do like to attach a name to men I’m trying to capture.” 

Phryne smiled a little wickedly at the end. Bringing murderers to justice was serious business, of course, but that didn’t mean one shouldn’t take a moment to recognize the joy in a good plan coming together. 

“Reverend Stanley Lowe,” Kate answered, “minister and sole proprietor of the One True Path Bible Church of Roundwood, New Jersey.” 

“A little redundant in the naming,” Phryne observed drily. “Are you religious, Kate?” 

“My grandfather is minister actually. Of the Episcopal variety. A fine man. Married Luddy  & I. But after finding my brother dead as I did, I rather lost my taste for religion.” Kate’s tone was matter-of-fact. She trusted Phryne would accept her unsentimental telling of such a pivotal matter. 

“France led me to a rather similar conclusion,” Phryne replied. “It makes our time here all the more important, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Kate simply nodded, and they continued to busy themselves with their preparations. 

Moments later, their companiable silence was broken by the roaring of an aircraft engine as a plane came in for a landing. 

“The cavalry!” Phryne exclaimed, guiding Kate from the hangar to the side of the airstrip where they could watch Jessie Miller bring a gleaming Lockheed Vega 5 in for a landing. The plane was one of the fastest available – Amelia Earhart had piloted one in her solo crossing of the Atlantic, another had set the record for the first non-stop flight from Los Angeles to New York – but they were notoriously tricky to land. Phryne had no reason to worry. Jessie Miller, Australian pioneer and adventurer, brought the craft down safely without incident. 

“Beautiful,” Jack said, joining the group. “Have you flown one?” 

“Not this model, no,” Phryne responded. “There’s a larger engine now – 450 horsepower – greater speed, more room for passengers.” 

“I see a gleam,” he teased, imagining Phryne might like to try for a Pacific crossing under the right circumstances. 

“Not more than a gleam, darling,” she volleyed. “This one is beyond my financial ability to commit. But she’ll make an excellent backdrop for our purposes today.” 

Jessie Miller and Opal Steves climbed down from the Vega. Phryne greeted them warmly, with profuse thanks for their enthusiastic participation in the afternoon’s ruse. 

“Where would you like her?” Opal inquired. 

“She looks lovely right there on the field,” Phryne responded. “We’ll put the podium in front of her and hang the banner across her mid-section.” 

Jack, who would be posing as a newspaper report in this afternoon’s theatrical, took a few steps back and raised his camera to survey the drama’s backdrop through the viewfinder. 

Phryne noted his nod of approval then led the group back towards the hangar. 

“We have refreshments inside, ladies,” she offered. “And then it’s showtime.” 

* * *

An hour later, the stage was set as Phryne had envisioned. Florence Trumbull joined her near the podium, looking out on the dozen or so reporters and onlookers assembled. 

“Excellent turnout,” Phryne observed, noting how well Jack blended in with the other men of the press. “But we can’t keep them waiting much longer. Do you think Mr. Lowe will show?” 

“The notice was hand-delivered,” Florence replied. “But if we wait much longer my father may turn up.” 

Phryne absorbed the news with some concern. “Go on.” 

“We put out a press release, Miss Fisher. He’s going to hear about any public event that I’m involved in. Luckily, he’s nearly two hours away, christening a new construction project in Passaic County.” 

“You think he’d come here and blow our cover.” 

Florence nodded. 

“Well then, if the good reverend doesn’t show we’ll be inaugurating the Phryne Fisher Flying School for Young Women after all.” 

Phryne noticed a dark car arriving in the distance. Nearly simultaneously Jack caught her gaze and raised his eyebrows in the universally recognized manner of a man saying, “get on with it already”. 

“Let’s take our chances, Florence. Can you draw out your introduction?” 

Florence took her place at the podium, the Australian flyers flanking her on either side, the Lockheed Vega gleaming in the late winter sunlight. Florence addressed the crowd confidently with a version of her speech from the Women in Aviation luncheon, calling for the removal of artificial barriers that discouraged female pilots, while noting that the growth of the aviation industry was one economic bright spot in the midst of the general downturn. Phryne mused that she must have inherited some of her father’s public speaking and political skill and wondered at what point in the future the state of New Jersey might be ready for a woman as governor. 

As Florence spoke, Stanley Lowe exited his car and quietly joined the assembly, working his way forward in the crowd, man by man. Jack noticed the man on his left, and after a quick once over, sought out Phryne’s attention. Perfectly attuned, Phryne felt Jack’s gaze and signaled to him that the man in question was indeed Mr. Lowe. 

Jack thought he could make out the bulge of a revolver in Mr. Lowe’s in the right pocket of his jacket, yet Mr. Lowe was in no rush to make his move. 

Florence turned the podium over to the pilot, Jessie Miller, who expounded on the virtues of the Lockheed Vega. Florence should have moved stage right when she gave up the podium, which would have placed her next to Phryne and the protection of her revolver. Instead she moved stage left, near Opal Steves. 

Stanley Lowe edged closer to Florence. The timing was delicate. They needed to draw Lowe out, extracting a threat that could be construed as attempted murder without letting things progress anywhere near actual murder. 

Jack stepped forward, putting his body in between Lowe and Florence while calling out a question to Jessie Miller to draw the crowd’s attention. 

“Miss Miller! Miss Miller!” Jack shouted. “Sam Craig, Melbourne Argus. Why would a group of Australian women start this initiative in America? Will you be training female pilots back home?” 

This was the pre-arranged cue to spring the next phase of the trap. As Jessie Miller addressed the question, Phryne signaled to Kate, waiting off-stage in the wings – or in the case, the darkened hangar. “You’re on,” she mouthed. 

Kate rushed to the podium, attired in the long black Victorian dress she had fashioned to appear like one of Lowe’s Times Square harem, calling out “Miss Fisher! Miss Miller! You must help me! Include me in your flying school!” 

There was nothing subtle in Kate’s performance. This was pure noise and spectacle and worked brilliantly to draw the attention of the reporters. Flashbulbs popped. 

Lowe surged towards Kate, shocked, reaching impulsively for his gun. 

Jack followed closely on his heels. 

As Lowe raised his revolver, Kate shouted. “That man! You must save me from him!” 

It worked perfectly as a distraction. Jack grabbed the man’s arm, thrusting it downward with enough force that Lowe’s grip on the gun also loosened. Jack stripped the revolver from Lowe’s hand, then placed his right foot on top of the weapon. 

Phryne parted the assembled reporters, holding her own revolver steady toward Lowe, who Jack had now maneuvered into a compliant position, hands behind his back. 

In another stroke of perfect timing, Florence’s father, Governor Trumbull, reached the airfield as the chaos subsided, trailed by his retinue of state troopers. 

Jack addressed the lead security officer as approached the scene, “Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of the Victoria Police, Melbourne, Australia.” 

“Gentlemen,” Phryne added. “If you test the revolver recently wielded by Reverend Lowe, I believe you’ll find that it was the weapon used to kill Ephraim Alexandrov in Manhattan, Monday night.” 

“Detective Enright of the 18th Precinct will be happy to speak with you,” Jack stated, continuing Phryne’s thought seamlessly. 

Their eyes met for a moment and they shared a smile, one they saved for one another to mark a job particularly well done. 

As the troopers removed Mr. Lowe and Florence embraced her father, Kate, now out of costume, approached Phryne, “Can we still have that flying lesson?” 


	12. Farewells & Greetings

**March 22, 1930**

Phryne and Kate stood together at a window on the 68th Floor of the Chrysler Building. The afternoon was crisp and bright, offering clear views uptown to Central Park, and west to the shimmering Hudson. It was to be Phryne’s last full day in New York – for this trip certainly – perhaps forever, who can ever say – and she intended to soak up every bit of energy the city had to offer – even dragging Jack to a jazz club in Harlem at a respectably late hour. 

“How did Luddy get us in here?” Phryne asked. “These views are breathtaking.” 

“He has his ways sometimes,” Kate answered. “I think he prefers that I don’t know, actually. It adds some mystique to the routine exchange of favors.”

“We wouldn’t be allowed here once the club opens, would we?” 

“Heaven forfend!” Kate exclaimed, over-dramatizing in mock indignation before switching to a drily ironic tone. “How ever would the captains of industry steer the economy towards recovery if there were ladies present.” 

Phryne smiled and raised her eyebrows archly in sympathy before moving to join Luddy and Jack at another bank of windows. 

“Luddy,” she called, “Kate says you have news of the Orlovs?” 

“I spoke with the lawyer this morning,” Luddy replied. “Ivan Orlov was released on bail yesterday, and they expect the district attorney will drop all charges Monday. You do good work.” 

“It was a team effort,” Phryne replied graciously, looping her arm through Jack’s. 

“The New York police force could use you, Inspector,” Kate added. “Can’t we ask you to convert?” 

“I’m a man of firm allegiances, Miss Hepburn,” Jack answered, volleying her teasing, much as he would have with Phryne. 

“Melbourne is home.” 

“And you won’t leave Miss Fisher behind with me?” Kate continued. 

“As I’m sure you know, Miss Fisher makes her own decisions.” Jack’s tone acknowledged that this was still conversational play, but couldn’t completely cover the painful twinge of doubt underneath. Yes, Phryne would return with him to Melbourne, but how long could he expect it to satisfy her restless energy. 

“Miss Fisher doesn’t enjoy having her name bandied about in this way, even among dear friends,” Phryne stated resolutely. “I have made a decision. We have train tickets to Chicago, then California, and we’ll be steaming back to Australia next week.” Jack gripped her hand a little more tightly in response. 

“But I will miss you terribly dear Kate,” Phryne added, wrapping her friend in an embrace. “And you, dear Luddy,” offering him a kiss on the cheek. “And New York, in all it’s complicated, chaotic glory,” she said effusively, gesturing once again to the magnificent view. “You will just have to come and see us in Melbourne.” 

* * *

**May, 1955 - Sydney, Australia**

_A news item_ \-- The internationally renowned, Oscar-winning actress Katharine Hepburn arrived in Sydney, Australia today for a six-month engagement. Miss Hepburn, perhaps best known for her enduring screen partnership with actor Spencer Tracy, will perform three works of Shakespeare in several Australian cities. Her latest film, _Summertime_ , a romance set in Venice, Italy, will reach Australian movie screens later this year. 

The reporters who captured this news reel footage of Kate's arrival in Sydney somehow missed the presence of The Honourable Phryne Fisher, just off-screen. 

"Kate, darling, you look radiant," Phryne exclaimed, pulling her friend into an embrace once the frenzy of the news conference settled down. "Jack couldn't join me in Sydney today, but he is looking so forward to seeing you on stage in Melbourne." 

"Who would have thought?" Kate mused. "My Lord, we had a good time in New York, didn't we?" 

"There is very little anyone could have predicted about the past twenty-five years," Phryne said, her eyes warm and joyful, "but I _always_ knew you were going to be a magnificent success." 

"Let's go," Kate said simply. "I want to see everything." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading! I've had as much fun as Phryne & Kate!


End file.
